


The Best Laid Plans

by Talvikuningatar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bossy Sherlock, Established Relationship, Frottage, How well do you think it'll work out?, John tries to be a gentleman, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Case Sex, Some sort of attempt at humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-08-21 03:03:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16568402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talvikuningatar/pseuds/Talvikuningatar
Summary: Post-case sex tends to be a bit on the rough side. John decides this needs to change, only to discover it's not as easy to make gentle love to his husband as he has thought.





	1. Good Intentions

Sherlock slumped onto the floor, panting, as John pulled out of him and swayed for a moment on his knees before half falling, half siting down. This time, they had managed to avoid staining the rug: Sherlock had only had his forearms on it, so the mess had ended up on the bare floorboards.

"You all right?" John asked. His voice sounded hoarse, and he cleared his throat.

Sherlock flopped onto his back, grinning. "I'm perfect." His elbows and knees were reddened from the friction, but the skin didn't seem broken or even likely to bruise.

"You are," John agreed, and if his smile was a little too tender, Sherlock didn't mention it. "Hungry?"

"Yes." Sherlock's pants and trousers were still around one ankle, and he kicked them off. John wondered if he'd left his shoes on the stairs again – Mrs Hudson didn't approve of that. "Pizza."

"Pizza?" John raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Absolutely." Sherlock jumped to his feet, unfairly graceful for someone who only moments ago had been fucked on the hardwood floor as if there were no tomorrow. "I'll order – you had _mushrooms_ in it the last time."

 _Last time_ , John thought, amused – it had been at least a year since they'd had pizza.

Sherlock sauntered towards the kitchen, only stopping to pick up his coat from the floor and dig his phone out of the pocket. He was already dialling the number as he walked.

"You like mushrooms," John called after him, following Sherlock with his gaze. Sherlock was still wearing his shirt but nothing else, and the view was brilliant. John especially liked the trickle of come sliding down his inner thigh.

"Not in pizza, John, obviously. Clean up the floor, we can have a shower before it arrives."

"All right, all right," John said and reached for Sherlock's pants.

As he used them to wipe the semen from the floor, he thought about Sherlock's reddened knees and elbows and his own aching joints. Next time, he promised himself, they'd have their post-case sex in _bed_. He would not fuck his husband on the floor like some bloody barbarian; he'd take Sherlock to bed and make love to him like a perfect gentleman, slow and sweet and tender.

Satisfied with his decision, John staggered to his feet, pulling his jeans up so that he could follow Sherlock into the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following chapters will be longer, don't worry. And they'll be all porn, so, uh, yeah. That's what you're in for, all right?


	2. Not Quite

It didn't quite go according to plan.

The case had ended with a wild chase along the bank of Thames and John tackling the forger they'd been trying to catch, nearly sending them both tumbling into the river. They'd been saved by Sherlock, catching the back of John's jacket and dragging him further away from the water while yelling at the forger for 'endangering his husband'. The man, bruised and shaken, had seemed to decide it was best not to try running again after that.

They'd slipped away while Lestrade had been busy arresting the suspect – Sherlock had already explained his brilliant deductions before the man had made his mad, doomed dash for freedom, so there hadn't been a reason to stay any longer. In the cab, they'd sat in silence, both staring out of their respective windows, aware that if they'd make the mistake of looking at each other, they could never keep their hands to themselves.

John had a fleeting thought of their bed as he closed the kitchen door behind them, but Sherlock was on him before he could open his mouth to voice it. He found himself pinned to the door, Sherlock's lips on his and the entirety of Sherlock's body flush against his own.

"Idiot," Sherlock mumbled against his lips between kisses. "You lovely bloody idiot, what if you'd fallen–"

His hard cock was pressing into John's lower belly and his hips were moving, shuddery little thrusts that made John want to have him right there.

"Wasn't my fault," John gasped against his mouth. "Sherlock…"

"Idiot." There were more kisses, their mouths never more than millimetres apart. "Fuck me already."

"Clothes," John got out. "Off."

Sherlock made an agreeing noise but didn't seem inclined to stop kissing, hands sliding up into John's hair as they panted against each other's mouths.

"Clothes," John repeated and started working Sherlock's coat off his shoulders.

With a sigh that sounded almost annoyed, Sherlock let his hands fall from John's hair so that John could slip the coat down his arms, and the heavy garment fell on the floor with a thump. John had enough time to get Sherlock's jacket off too, and then Sherlock's mouth was on his again, insistent tongue parting his lips and meeting his own, coaxing it into Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock's hands had found their way on John's arse and he'd spread his legs and bent his knees enough that when John got up on his toes, their hips met and their cocks rubbed against each other through the layers of fabric. The zipper of John's jeans was an uncomfortable pressure along his erection, but one of his hands was in Sherlock's silky curls and the other working its way under Sherlock's shirt, and he couldn't take either one away long enough to do anything about the discomfort.

Sherlock was breathing hard, and his kisses came with teeth, sharp little nips on John's lips and tongue. "John. Want you."

"Yeah, yeah" John pulled Sherlock's hips closer, and that really wasn't comfortable, but the thought of not being pressed together as tightly as possible was almost unbearable.

"Fuck me," Sherlock demanded, lips moving against John's.

_Bed_ , John remembered again, but then Sherlock's nibbling kisses turned into an actual stinging bite on his lower lip, and John couldn't let something like that slide.

He caught Sherlock by the upper arms, twirled him around and bend him over the kitchen table before Sherlock had time to gasp.

" _Yes_ ," Sherlock hissed. "John, _yes_ , just–"

John let his hands travel to Sherlock's hips, and Sherlock arched his back and pushed his arse up. Most of his shirt was untucked from his trousers, soft, warm skin of his back visible where it had pulled up, and John couldn't resist rucking the smooth fabric up further, exposing more skin. He slid his hands down Sherlock's sides back to his hips and let his fingers follow the belt until he reached the buckle. Sherlock sucked his belly in, and John undid the belt and Sherlock's flies. Then Sherlock's hands were there too, pushing the trousers and pants down, and John helped to pull them over the lush curve of his arse. They fell on the floor, and Sherlock stepped out of them and his shoes and kicked them to the side before spreading his legs wide.

"Christ," John whispered. He caught Sherlock by the hips again and rubbed his clothed crotch against bare skin, his aching cock pressing between Sherlock's buttocks.

"Fuck me!" It was an order, and John did not feel like disobeying.

"Lube–"

"Coat. Pocket. Just – hurry!"

"Yeah." John bent down to pick up Sherlock's coat and fumbled a moment until he got his hand into the right pocket. His fingers met the edge of a small sachet, and he pulled it out and let the coat fall back on the floor.

"John! Come on, _fuck_ me already!"

"Yeah, yeah." His hands were shaking as he unzipped his jeans and pushed them, along with his pants, down to his thighs before ripping the sachet open and slicking his cock and three fingers. The empty sachet slipped from his hand onto the rug under the table.

When the first finger pushed into him, Sherlock let out a long, satisfied sigh. John let the finger slip in all the way, gave a couple of shallow thrusts, and then pulled out and eased back in with two before Sherlock had a chance to make more demands. He was rewarded with a low groan and Sherlock's hips jerking backwards, the tight hole sucking his fingers in.

John would have liked to take his time preparing Sherlock, but he knew they were both too keyed up, so after a few thrusts, he pulled his fingers out, only to shove three back in. Sherlock cried out and arched his back, squirming so hard John had to grip his hip to still him so he wouldn't slip off the table.

"What's taking so long?" Sherlock must've meant it to come out snappy, but he only managed to sound breathy and desperate.

"Shut up," John told him and twisted his fingers, giving Sherlock's prostate a few rough strokes. Sherlock whined, fingers clawing at the table as John brushed his sweet spot again and again until Sherlock was whining and sweating enough that his shirt stuck to the skin of his back in places.

When John pulled his fingers out, Sherlock whimpered and dropped his forehead to the table top with an audible thud. He was panting, his lean back rising and falling, and John was sure he would go crazy if he couldn't have Sherlock right that moment.

"God, I could just eat you."

Sherlock turned to look at John over his shoulder. His cheeks were pink and his eyes dark with arousal, curls stuck to his sweaty forehead. "Another time. I want your cock. Now!"

John swallowed. "Yeah." He sifted closer and took a hold of his cock, shuddering at the touch. He could have jacked off and come all over Sherlock's arse.

"Don't you dare!" Sherlock glared at him. "Don't even _dream_ about coming before you've fucked me, you bastard!"

John laughed. "Quit reading my mind when we're fucking."

Sherlock was about to answer, but John shifted closer, his slick cock rubbing against the back of Sherlock's thigh, and instead of words, a sharp hiss slipped out of Sherlock's mouth. He bent his knees to bring his hips lower, and John was pressed against him right _there_. He paused, the tip of his cock touching Sherlock's slick, loose opening, almost in.

"Can I?" His voice sounded shaky, and he took a deep, steadying breath.

" _Obviously_!" Sherlock was nodding frantically. "Fuck me. As hard as you can. _Now_!"

John obeyed. He tightened his hold of Sherlock's hips and eased in slowly, all the way into that lovely tightness. Under him, Sherlock groaned, hands clenching and unclenching on the table.

"Fuck me, John, I need this, I–" The rest of his sentence was lost in a cry as John started thrusting, hard and deep. He had to get up on his toes with each shove into Sherlock, and he knew his calves wouldn't thank him for that later, but right then, it didn't matter. All that mattered was that Sherlock was hot and slick and so tight around him, moaning and pushing his hips back to get more.

"Fuck," John breathed, "you're so … so…"

Sherlock clenched around him, and he forgot what he was about to say. He was sweating and wished he'd at least taken off his coat, but Sherlock was trembling under him, and John clung to his narrow hips and kept slamming into him, unable to stop long enough to remove any more clothing. The table was shaking, a few empty test tubes clinking against each other in their rack.

"Harder," Sherlock demanded, and John almost laughed.

"I don't think that's _puh_ -possible, Jesus, Sherlock–"

"Previous experiences with you would – fuck, oh _fuck_ – would beg to differ. John!"

John gripped Sherlock's hips harder, his nails digging in, and redoubled his efforts, his hips snapping in a harsh rhythm, the slap of skin on skin echoing from the walls. The table shifted a few inches forward along the carpet and a pile of microscope slides slipped off the edge and onto the floor.

"We were in bed then," John panted. "This is a lot easier in bed, we could have–"

" _You_ shoved me on the table yourself." Sherlock lifted himself up on his forearms, which gave him more leverage to push back against John's thrusts. It must have improved the angle too, because he cried out, back arching, his hole tightening around John's cock. "Touch me. Oh god fuck _touch me_ , I'm so close, I need to _come_ -!"

John let go of Sherlock's hip, slipped his hand lower and wrapped it around Sherlock's steel-hard cock, and that was all it took; Sherlock clenched around him and pulsed in his hand, crying out as if he was being murdered as he came all over the table and his belly and John's hand. John lost it too, ramming into him a few more times before emptying himself into Sherlock's arse, his hand still moving on Sherlock's cock, thumb rubbing around the slick head.

"Oh god," Sherlock breathed, his voice shaky.

Letting go of Sherlock's spent cock, John dropped his head down, buried his face on the back of Sherlock's sweat-stained shirt and waited for his heartbeat to slow down to normal. His legs were trembling, and he lowered his heels to the ground, his softening cock slipping out of Sherlock when he shifted a little to the side. The both hissed, and Sherlock slumped down on the table, only to jerk up when his belly came in contact with the cooling semen.

Chuckling, John took a step back, and Sherlock straightened and turned around, leaning against the table. The look in his eyes was still a little dazed, and he seemed unable to school the languid smile out of his face quite yet.

For a few moments John didn't do anything else but watch as Sherlock blinked and stretched, and the usual sharp look slowly returned to his pale eyes.

"I needed that," Sherlock said primly, the corner of his mouth still curved upwards.

His shirt, still rucked up to his armpits, was stained with his own come. The edge of the table had left sharp red lines across his lower belly and there were scratches on his hips, pink and raised and not quite bleeding. John swiped Sherlock's come from his hand to the leg of his jeans and reached out to trail his fingers across the marks. Sherlock's abdominals jumped under his touch, and the shirt slipped down, covering most of the damage.

"Sorry. That was a bit–"

"You're an idiot," Sherlock interrupted him and leaned down to brush their lips together. "I want curry. Your turn to order."

He gave John another quick kiss and strolled towards the bathroom, shedding his remaining clothes along the way.

John sighed and started patting his pockets for his phone. His calves were aching, and the way his vest clung to his sweaty skin was not pleasant. Next time, he swore to himself, they'd get all their clothes off and make it to the bed.

At least then, he wouldn't have to worry about the bloody height difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John. Were you even trying, mate?


	3. Not Even Close

Of course, they didn't make it anywhere near the bed.

In fact, they didn't make it into the flat at all.

Sherlock had been particularly rude towards Greg and his team and, as what John suspected to be a punishment, Greg had forced them to handle the paperwork before leaving. After that, Sherlock had been practically vibrating out of his skin, and John had realised neither of them would make it home with their dignity intact.

He'd taken the matters – and, apparently, Sherlock's arse – in his own hands. As he guided Sherlock through the hallways of NSY, he was thankful of the long coat that hid the fact that after three long days of no touching, his hand was refamiliarizing itself with the perfect curves of Sherlock's buttocks. Sherlock, he assumed, wouldn't have minded if anyone had seen, but John preferred to be a little more tactful.

And that was how they ended up in the men's room.

John wasted no time shoving Sherlock into the nearest stall, hoping no one they knew saw them, and closing and locking the door behind them. Sherlock's eyes were wide and dark and his cheeks were pink with arousal, and though he was still fully dressed, coat and gloves and scarf and all, he looked like the very picture of debauchery. There was no way John could resist.

He pinned Sherlock to the wall of the cubicle, one hand in his hair and the other trapping his right wrist above his head. Sherlock let out a choked-off noise, pale eyes widening and then sliding closed in bliss as John kissed him, open-mouthed, all teeth and tongue and no finesse. Sherlock kissed him back with equal urgency, his free hand clinging to the front of John's jacket.

When John released Sherlock's mouth, they were both panting. Sherlock's cock was hard against his lower belly, his own trapped against Sherlock's thigh, and he knew they could both come like this, rutting against each other like crazed animals.

"John. Oh god, " Sherlock gasped and lifted his other hand up, right beside the one John had caught against the wall. John took the hint and gripped both wrists in his hand, knowing full well that Sherlock could have gotten free of his hold without much effort. That wasn't the point, though. It wasn't the point at all.

"John," Sherlock repeated. "Hurry _up_."

He thrust his hips against John, a jerky, uncoordinated movement, then slid lower against the wall until their hips were aligned, one leg coming to wrap over John's calf. They both moaned as their cocks rubbed together through the layers of their clothes.

_Too loud_ , John thought, but that wasn't enough to stop him. His free hand was already working itself between their bodies, yanking Sherlock's belt and flies open, his fingers clumsy with arousal. His own jeans fell to his thighs without much encouragement once he managed to get them open, and his boxers followed, but Sherlock's bespoke trousers were more of a challenge.

It would have been easier if he'd been able to use both of his hands, but he had no intention to let go of Sherlock's wrists, and it took him a whole minute to work the trousers and pants down enough that their bare cocks could finally touch. Sherlock, squirming against him and moaning every time John's hand brushed – or, to be honest, groped – his arse or cock, wasn't helping much.

When they were both finally freed from the confines of their clothes, he wrapped his hand around their cocks. Sherlock cried out, the sound echoing from the tiled walls, and threw his head back, thumping it against the wall.

"Shh," John hissed. "God, you have to be quiet–"

"You be quiet," Sherlock told him, voice breathy, and lifted his leg higher to John's hip, pulling him closer.

John had to muffle his moan into the shoulder of Sherlock's coat, and Sherlock laughed and shifted against him, their cocks sliding past each other, all heat and glorious friction. His panting breath was warm against John's cheek.

"Bastard," John muttered and kissed him again.

Their tongues met before their lips did, Sherlock's slipping into John's mouth, thrusting in time with the jerky movements of his hips. John started to stroke their cocks as he chased Sherlock's tongue back into his mouth, and a low, satisfied sound, almost a purr, escaped Sherlock's throat, the tendons on his wrists flexing as he clenched and unclenched his hands.

John kissed along Sherlock's jaw to his ear, the soft curls there tickling his nose. Both their hips were moving now, perfectly in time with each other, and John's palm was getting slick with sweat and their combined precome.

"John," Sherlock breathed, tilting his head to the side in an obvious invitation. John bit at his exposed neck, not hard, just enough to sting, before he licked over the bite and buried his nose in the hollow below Sherlock's ear. Sherlock smelled of familiar cologne and clean sweat there.

"John," Sherlock repeated. "More. What are you waiting for, come on, John."

"Yeah," John got out. He tightened his hand around their cocks, hips rocking faster against Sherlock's, and Sherlock cursed under his breath and then groaned as John rubbed his thumb over the sticky heads of their cocks, spreading their fluids.

"God, you have to be quiet," John panted.

Unfortunately, Sherlock wasn't being cooperative. The next swipe of John's thumb on the head of his cock had him crying out again, and John had to let go of his wrists to clamp his now free hand across Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock exhaled hard through his nose, his eyes suddenly wide. His hands came down to grip John's shoulders, fingers digging in through his jacket so hard that John feared he'd have bruises later.

As John kept his hand moving on their cocks, Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close, his head tilted back and his breath puffing against the back of John's hand. John was losing his rhythm, the movements his hand and hips jerky and unsteady, but at this point, it didn't matter anymore. Sherlock was quivering against him, his entire body tense, and John knew he was close, thank _god_ , because so was John.

A few more strokes, and John was coming all over their cock and bellies, burying his face into Sherlock's shoulder and biting the thick wool of his coat to muffle his moans. Sherlock whined against his palm as John kept stroking him, rubbing his own come into Sherlock's skin, until Sherlock came with a broken-off shout, his back arching off the wall. He trembled as his cock jerked in John's hand, and then slumped back against the wall, panting.

John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder and waited for his breathing to calm. After a while, Sherlock nudged him on the side, and John pulled back. His legs weren't feeling quite steady yet, and he shifted to lean against the door.

They spend long moments collecting themselves, not moving, only breathing. When John finally straightened and pushed himself away from the wall, Sherlock seemed to find the control of his muscles too, blinking as if he was trying to clear his vision.

"Since that's done," Sherlock said, sounding as if he _hadn't_ come his brains out in the bloody loo mere minutes ago, despite the colour still high on his cheeks and his eyes a little glassy, "we could have dinner at Angelo's. Some clean-up seems to be in order too," he added, looking down at himself. "You may have ruined my shirt, by the way."

John looked at Sherlock's come-stained silk shirt, then up to meet Sherlock's eyes, and burst into laugh.

 

The clean-up, it turned out, took longer than the actual sex. In the cab on their way to Angelo's John swore to himself that _next time_ , it would be different, he would not be distracted. _Next time_ , bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, John. Try harder.


	4. Third Time's the Charm – Right?

They almost didn't make it.

Sherlock reached for John the moment the door closed behind them, but John was determinate. He caught Sherlock's hand and pulled him towards the bedroom. Sherlock followed without resistance – for a short while, at least. Then John found himself backed into the wall beside the bathroom door and Sherlock's mouth was on his, Sherlock's thigh pressing against his already hard cock and Sherlock's hands making their way under his clothes.

John nearly said 'fuck it' and had him right there on the floor.

But no. He'd made a promise, if only to himself, and he would take them to bed and do this right if it costed him his sanity.

He gathered all his willpower, pushed Sherlock away and continued dragging him into the bedroom.

The door had barely closed behind them when Sherlock shoved him, _hard_ , both palms against his chest, and John stumbled backwards. He ended up on his back on their unmade bed and not on the floor, but it was close.

"Jesus, Sherlock!"

Sherlock ignored him. By the time John had pushed himself up in sitting position, Sherlock had his jacket off and was undoing the buttons of his shirt with impressive swiftness. John had intended to undress him, but he supposed he could accept this change of plans if it meant he'd have his skin pressed against Sherlock's sooner, and started removing his own clothes.

He still had his trousers on when Sherlock, fully naked now, pounced him.

"Get these _off_ ," Sherlock demanded, fingers working open the fly off John's jeans. "God, do I have to do everything myself?"

John caught Sherlock's wrists in his hands. "Slow down!" He was almost laughing. "There's no rush, yeah?"

"Of _course_ there is!" Sherlock snapped and yanked one of his hands free. "Come _on_ , John." His clever fingers went back to work with John's jeans, and John admitted defeat and freed the other hand so that Sherlock could do what he wanted.

The jeans were on the floor in seconds, along with his shoes and pants and socks, and then Sherlock hands were both wrapping around John's cock, greedy and possessive, as if it had been years since they'd touched each other instead of a few days.

"Jesus!" John gasped, arching up from the bed. "Slow down!" He was as hard as he could get and he knew that if Sherlock kept this up, he'd come in a few short minutes.

Sherlock shook his head, a sinful grin on his lips. One of his hands left John's cock and reached for the pump-top bottle of lube on the nightstand, and it was clear that if John didn't stop Sherlock now, they'd end up fucking like animals within the next sixty seconds, and that was _not_ what he'd planned.

He caught Sherlock's wrist before the hand reached the bottle, then grabbed Sherlock's other hand, groaning as the wonderful pressure left his cock, and flipped them over, pinning Sherlock's wrists on the bedding above his head.

Sherlock didn't seem displeased by this turn of events. He smirked up at John and pushed his hips up, the wet head of his cock brushing along John's thigh, leaving a sticky trail on his skin. John swallowed and shifted lower so that their cocks could touch, and Sherlock arched under him and moaned softly.

"Keep your hands where they are." John punctuated the order with a squeeze on Sherlock's wrists before releasing them and leaning in to kiss down Sherlock's neck. Sherlock tilted his head back, and, to John's surprise, kept his hands where John had placed them. That left John free to mouth at his sharp collarbones and then leave a trail soft kisses across Sherlock's chest, his hands stroking Sherlock's sides. Sherlock kept writhing under him, pressing up against him, then suddenly jerking away with a shudder as John licked at his navel. John laughed, and Sherlock huffed, annoyed.

"Just keep going," Sherlock told him.

John obeyed. He dropped open-mouthed kisses down Sherlock's lower belly until he reached the dark thatch of his pubic hair, and then he looked up, his smile wicked.

"Yes." Sherlock met John's eyes. "John."

John allowed his smile to widen a fraction before ducking down and taking the tip of Sherlock's cock in his mouth. Sherlock keened, hips jerking up, forcing his cock down John's throat until he almost choked and had to pin Sherlock's pelvis down with both hands.

"Stay still," he admonished, and lowered his head again.

Sherlock tried to say something, but whatever it was came out as garbled groan when John licked a long stripe up his cock and then wrapped his lips around the head, pushing the foreskin gently down with them. Sherlock was so hard, and when John pulled back and licked around the head of his cock, it jerked and spilled precome onto his tongue.

He set a steady, slow pace, alternating between sucking at the head of Sherlock's cock, his tongue moving back and forth against the underside, and licking at him, long, broad swipes of his tongue all along and around the hard flesh. Every time he pressed against the slick tip, Sherlock's hips twitched, but John kept them pinned tightly to the bed and continued teasing him with touches he knew were nowhere near enough.

When Sherlock was nothing but a shaking, whimpering mess, John finally took pity of him and swallowed him down, all the way until his nose was pressed into Sherlock's pubes. Sherlock cried out, his thighs trembling, and John hummed and started moving his mouth up and down, his rhythm slow and his tongue swirling all around Sherlock's cock.

It didn't take long before Sherlock was gasping, and then there was a hand in John's hair, tugging him up.

"Stop! John, stop!" Sherlock panted.

John lifted his head, about to ask what was wrong, but the moment he was out of the way, Sherlock was lifting his knees and pushing a slicked finger into himself. John blinked, surprised – he hadn't even noticed Sherlock reaching for the lube this time.

"Oh god," Sherlock breathed as he added another finger almost right away. His other hand was still gripping John's hair, trembling. "John, come on…"

John caught Sherlock's wrist and stilled his desperate thrusts. Sherlock whined and twisted, trying to shift his arse on his finger now that he couldn't fuck himself with them. The heel of his hand was pressed against his bollocks, and John trailed the fingertips of his free hand across them.

"John!"

"Shh, it's all right, let me." John slid his hand down along the back of Sherlock's until the tip of his forefinger brushed the stretched skin of his hole. A helpless, needy cry escaped Sherlock's throat, the hand in John's hair clenching, and John pushed the finger in alongside Sherlock's. Sherlock hissed, spreading his legs wider and started to thrust into himself again, and John followed his pace and, after a moment, added lube and then yet another finger. Sherlock made a noise as if he was breaking, high and desperate, and then he was pulling his fingers out.

"Fuck me," he panted. "Just fuck me, I'm ready, John, _fuck me_."

John hummed but kept his own fingers where they were, the tips drawing soft circles around Sherlock's prostate and sometimes rubbing across it. Sherlock was hot and slick inside, clenching around his fingers, trembling with need, and John wanted to keep him like that forever, beautiful and desperate and at his mercy.

But his own cruelly neglected cock was aching, and he knew there was a real risk he'd embarrass himself if he didn't get to put it inside Sherlock soon. He pulled his fingers out, and Sherlock whined and went to roll to his belly. John caught him by the hip and stilled him.

"No. Like this. Okay?"

Sherlock's only answer was a nod. He had the lube bottle in his hand and pumped a dollop on his palm, and then his fingers were wrapping around John's cock.

It was John's turn to whine. Sherlock's hand was hot and his grip tight, and he smirked up at John, satisfied with himself as he kept stroking John's cock even after it was more than slick enough.

"Now," he said as he let his fingers fall from John's erection, wiping them on the sheets. "Come on, John, or I'll never forgive you."

Unable to wait for another moment either, John nodded. He took a hold of Sherlock's legs and directed them to wrap around his waist, then gripped his cock and guided it to Sherlock's slick, gaping hole.

The slow push in was agonizing. His every instinct was screaming for him to shove in, deep into that glorious heat, and he knew Sherlock wouldn't object, but he forced himself to go slow. It took ages before he was balls deep in Sherlock, and then he had to stay still for a long moment to calm his breathing.

Only when Sherlock was twisting and writhing under him, John started rocking, slow and gentle, never pulling out more than an inch or two before pushing back in. Sherlock's fingers were digging into his shoulder blades, blunt nails leaving stinging scratches behind.

"You're killing me," Sherlock whispered. "Oh god. _Please_." He had his head thrown back, his pale eyes closed and his face twisted as if in agony.

John leaned down, his weight on his elbows on either side of Sherlock, and kissed him, slow and sweet, sucking his lower lip into his mouth and gently scraping his teeth across it. Sherlock's tongue pushed into his mouth, licking, thrusting, and John sucked at it, all the while keeping the pace of his hips steady. Sherlock was clenching around him rhythmically, tight and sweet and so good John thought he could do this forever.

When Sherlock released his lips, John shifted to kiss along his jaw, the hint of stubble there rough against his lips. He sucked at Sherlock's earlobe, and Sherlock keened, hips jerking up to meet John's slow thrusts, his entire body begging for John to fuck him faster, harder.

John allowed his thrusts to pick up pace, though not by much, and Sherlock whispered his name, one hand sliding up into his hair and holding him closer. They kept rocking together, bodies melding into each other, and Sherlock shuddered every time John's cock brushed his sensitive prostate. Sweat was making the slide of skin against skin gloriously easy, and each brush of John's belly across the head of Sherlock's cock left sticky trails on his skin.

"John!" Sherlock arched up, panting. "John, god, just a little, just a little–"

"I know," John said. He balanced on his right forearm and slid his left hand between their bodies, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's leaking erection. "There."

Sherlock threw his head back, hips jolting up, and John kissed his arched neck. He was making high, needy sounds John could feel vibrating under his lips, and it was clear he was almost there.

"John! John, _John_!"

His name on Sherlock's lips was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. "Let go, love," John whispered, rubbing his thumb against Sherlock's fraenulum and then across the wet head of his cock. "Come on."

Sherlock cried out, legs tightening around John's waist and arse clenching as his hips jerked and he spurted come all over John's hand and his own belly.

"Oh god," he gasped. " _John_!" He pulled John down into a kiss, his mouth slack and open as John slipped his tongue inside.

A few more thrusts, and John was there too, driving himself deep into Sherlock and spilling his release with a desperate noise. Sherlock was clinging to him, pulling him close.

"Oh, John," he whispered in John's ear, voice low and soft and satisfied. "My John."

John nodded and buried his face in Sherlock's neck, panting against the sweaty skin.

Once he finally felt able to move, he lifted himself up and eased out of Sherlock. He wanted nothing more than curl beside Sherlock on the bed and fall asleep, but they were both a mess, and he knew Sherlock would soon start demanding dinner, so he reached for the tissues on the nightstand.

Sherlock hummed quietly as John wiped him clean of cooling semen. He had his eyes closed, and he only opened them when John, after having cleaned himself up too, flopped on his back beside him. Sherlock looked well-fucked, John thought, his curls a wild mess and his cheeks still pink, his soft lips a little swollen. John smiled at him and Sherlock smiled back before rolling to his side and resting his head on John's shoulder, tracing idle patterns on John's side with the tips of his fingers. John closed his eyes, still smiling to himself as Sherlock's fingers trailed lower, over his belly.

"That was lovely."

Sherlock's voice was low and something else, something that had John opening his eyes, along with his mouth, ready to say something, but the hand kept going lower until it seemed to reach its destination and wrapped around John's limp, oversensitive cock, and the words turned into a groan.

"Now," Sherlock continued, "if we're done with the foreplay, kindly throw me on the floor and fuck me like you mean it."

John pushed himself up on his elbows, his mouth still hanging open. For a long moment, he gaped at his husband, trying to come up with a response.

"Well?" Sherlock said. He had one eyebrow raised and very much looked ready for the second round.

John burst out into helpless laughter that turned into a choked-off gasp when Sherlock's hand started moving on his cock, coaxing it into reluctant hardness. Sherlock's mouth landed on his, hungry and demanding, and John closed his eyes and prayed he would survive this.

 

 

Later that evening, sitting opposite to happily chattering Sherlock at the kitchen table, John found he could relate to his noodles to an uncomfortable degree. Twirling them around his chopsticks, almost too exhausted to lift them to his mouth, he made himself another promise: never again would he try to be a gentleman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you sure _that_ is the lesson you were supposed to learn from this experience, John?


End file.
